Like the Tides
by Estoma
Summary: 'Remember that boy who won a few years back? The arena flooded and he was just the best swimmer.' AU: Odesta; on the rocks, with a twist; this time, Finnick is not the strong one. Cover image by April.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: For Gabbie, on your birthday. I hope you enjoy the first chapter of your birthday fic.**

**Prompt: Sand, from the Panem Challenge, at Caesar's Palace forum.**

**Slight AU.**

**Thanks to sohpypothetically for beta'ing. **

Far to the north and west, the mountain spires of District 2 were still locked in darkness. None of the designers in District 1 had yet risen to their luxurious desks, to put pen to paper for the newest and most outrageous uses for chiffon. In the Capitol, true dark never fell and the stars and moon were pale copies of themselves, for the city lights rarely dimmed. Sometimes, holograms of the familiar constellations; the hunter, the pot, the bear and the maiden, were projected into the sky from the tops of the tallest buildings. Even then, the designers could not resist making the stars bigger, brighter than life. They created fantastic new constellations. A favourite showed two lovers, caught in the act. For an exorbitant price, companies could have their advertisements spread across the sky in celestial writing; _Capitol Culture; New Edition Today._

But the sun's rays already gilded the golden coast of District 4, thousands of miles to the south and east. Large beyond imagination and as golden and liquid as egg yolk, the sun rose from the sea. But before the first red-gold shaft speared from the horizon, there was the grey predawn. An eerie time, it was neither true night or day and the light was dim and pale. Nothing was quite as it seemed; sand was grey and grainy with night's chill clinging to it. And if it clung to the sand, night still had the ocean in its thrall. Black and inky with grey foam instead of whitecaps, the water stubbornly refused to accept morning was coming. As it sucked and slapped at the sand, its chill preceded it.

From the children young enough to splash bare-skinned in the surf and run squealing from the waves, to the retired captains on their pensions who still walked as if there was a deck beneath their feet, everyone knew it was a dangerous time. District 4's elders spoke in their lilting accents-just made for stories-of Apollo, the sun, and Selene, the silvery moon. In the grey hour before dawn, Selene had driven her chariot, inlaid with silver filigree, back into the celestial regions and unhorses her four mares with their white flaxen tails. She fed them golden apples from her white hand. Her daytime counterpart, fiery Apollo, had yet to harness his stallions to his gilded chariot. With their manes running with fire, they waited, drumming their heels against the walls of their stable and eager to race across the sky and pull the brilliant sunrise behind them. When they did, their hooves would strike sparks that would spear down to earth as the rays of the sun. Before that, the sky was empty and unguarded. Superstitious sailors made sure to leave port when either the moon or the sun graced the sky. Plus, it was the preferred feeding time for sharks.

Long, coltish legs carried the boy swiftly between the colourful weatherboard shacks close by the water and he paused as his feet hit the sand, wriggling his toes deep into the soft, cold grains. Finn fixated on the contrast of the grey sand and his brown skin. A queer grin lifted the corners of his mouth, the left a little higher than the right, and put a dimple in both cheeks. His skin looked darker in the predawn light and when he squinted and looked down through his tangle of unkempt bronze hair, he half-fancied his feet had taken root in the sand. For a moment, he enjoyed the idea of being rooted to the beach but when he wriggled his toes deeper and failed to see their movement beneath the sand, he leapt backwards, kicking his feet in the air to assure himself they were still there. When he stumbled, the clump of spinifex grass behind him cushioned his fall. Sharp needles pricked at his bronzed skin but he was lucky not to be cut. Sometimes, Finn Odair was just lucky like that.

With the shivers of his little fright still reverberating through his nerves, Finn scampered down to where the sand was damp from the receding tide. The sand was so wet that is barely held his footprint for an instant before it smoothed out. Finn walked in a quick circle, trying to make his steps meet up, but each time, they were gone before he got back to the beginning. He tried gathering his lean muscles, not yet swelled with puberty, and jumping, but even then his marks were erased in moments. He frowned and stood with most of his weight on one foot while he wondered what to do next. As a blue-red soldier crab scuttled away from his disturbance, Finn jumped skittishly, brown feet slapping the sand. Crouching down on his heels, he watched as the crustacean corkscrewed into the moist sand, bony legs working like a little drill. The hole closed over and left barely a trace. Head to the side and hair flopping in his face, Finn scooped his hand down into the wet, sloppy sand and brought it up to eye level. Lips slightly parted, he wondered when the crab would reappear. When the little legs scrabbled at his palm, seeking to burrow back to safety, Finn giggled and flung the handful away. Wiping his hands off on his bare thigh, he straightened and walked towards the water.

At thirteen years old, Finnick knew very well that he wasn't supposed to be out of the house before dawn. Usually, his mother preferred he didn't leave the house alone, at all. As the thought returned, he cast a glance back over his shoulder and hunched down, as if his mother's keen, grey eyes could see him from here. Finn knew it was a dangerous time, but as his eye roved skyward, across the deep, deep blue sky that was so dark it was nearly black, he didn't think it was unguarded so much as peaceful.

When the wild winter storms would race in, it meant one thing for children; story time. In District 4, they were lucky; the weather was much milder and they never saw snow. In District 2's high mountains, the passes often became choked with snow and great slabs of ice, and food had to be sent in via hovercraft. Then, the stonecutters would gladly set aside their picks and retreat to their snug cabins to work on small projects set aside from the rest of the year; sewing, carving, teaching their children. Of course, the young careers kept training all year round. There were vast, undercover workshops where the huge, raw chunks of stone could be shaped by clever hands and stone chips would fly inside, while outside, snow battered against the windows and the doors. Once, a tribute said in their interview that there were seventeen different types of snow. The Capitol got its fair share of snow, too, but it was always swept clear of the streets before anyone saw it.

Though they brought no snow, District 4's storms were wild enough to ground the boats and give the sailors a chance to turn to other work; salting fish and mending nets, for the most part. When the winds lashed the shutters and sent cruel fingers tearing through the cracks and around the house, Finn's grandmother would be invited to stay with the family, because it was too dangerous to leave the house daily and check on her in her little, weather beaten shack on the tip of Humpback Cape. For most of the year, Narai Odair lived by herself in a two-roomed shack with only the cormorants that perched on the nearby rocks for company. She saw her grandchildren but twice a year; in spring, when they all watched the humpbacks migrate, mother and calf, to the cold Arctic waters, rich with krill, and in winter when the storms made her sanctuary a living hell. Her house came close to flooding each year, and the wind scoured the fading white paint from the boards. So, every winter, she moved into Finn's room and he was happy enough to share with his brother because Grandma had a story for everything.

Father's threadbare armchair was given up to Grandma each year, and the two little Odair children sat on the rug by her knees with their backs to the spitting driftwood fire. Finn looked up at her crinkled green eyes, and she ruffled with hair with her calloused hand and told him he'd pinched them from her. He never really understood what she meant, and waited eagerly for the stories to start. Narai had worked on crab boats for fifty-seven years, and had been the captain for twenty-one. While her body had failed her; her arms no longer strong enough to haul on a rope, or her legs steady enough to bear her across the deck, her keen eyes marked her as one who was used to being in command. They belied her ability to spin a tale with such passion that Finn's busy mother, Sedna Odair, would stand idly in the doorway to listen, with a bowl of flour and flake propped against her hip. One of the stories Finn remembered best was about Selene and Apollo. In the bare hour of predawn, when neither moon or sun graced the sky, Apollo would take his silvery lover in his arms for the briefest of moments. Fire and ice, melding together before the stallions reared and pawed the air and Apollo tore himself away; doomed to retrace his lover's passage across the heavens until next he could snatch a moment with her. Finn never exactly knew what the sun god did when he took the moon in his arms, but he liked the story. They had all stopped when Grandma passed away several years ago.

Grey foam rushed past Finn's ankles then calves as he leapt into the water, making a laughing, rushing game out of jumping the wavelets close to shore. Soon the game lost its appeal and the boy pushed through the inky water, out to where it was deeper. As a wave lifted him off his feet and his toes scraped at the soft sand, Finn started to swim. Lazy, overarm strokes took him further out, past where the waves broke and the ocean was flat and still. When he looked down, Finn's body appeared pale and insubstantial and when he held his legs together, moving his arms in figure eights to keep afloat, he looked like one of the mermaids from Grandma's stories. Squinting past his feet, Finn tried to make out the golden arches and soaring colonnades inlaid with seashells where King Triton lived, but he could barely see his own body in the dim water. Again, the dimpled smile spread over his face and the boy put his hands out ahead of him. With legs tucked together, he dove under the water, swimming how he thought a mermaid might. He wondered if he could find a trident to wield, like Poseidon, lord of the ocean. He decided to look around the docks; there were always bits and pieces laying around there, though mostly fish heads and old, frayed rope. Once though, Finn found enough scraps of old crates to cobble together into a little skiff. In dripping, childish writing, he wrote 'Pallas', like his father's boat. When he showed his father, Satnus Odair chuckled, ruffled his youngest son's hair and said it wasn't quite seaworthy yet.

When swimming like a merman tired him, Finn rolled over onto his back and blew a spray of saltwater from his mouth, now pretending to be one of the whales that migrated past the coast every spring. He blinked rapidly to get the stinging salt from his eyes. Finn was blithely unaware that his games broadcast his location to the _real_ lords of the sea. Not too far away, its wide gill slits flaring, a creature stirred and turned its blunt snout toward the sound of splashing. Sleek bodied and black eyed, the sharks were fearsome enough already to appear in the arenas without any genetic modifications. With an almost lazy flick of its tail, the grey nurse rose toward the surface.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Prompt: Movement, the Panem Challenge. **

**Thanks to sohypothetically for beta'ing.**

Three hundred yards back from the beach, the streets were dusted with sand and the odd seashell could be spotted, crushed into jagged pieces underfoot. Three hundred yards back from the beach, the houses were bright-painted weatherboard, with salt that made white patterns on the window panes, like snowflakes. Of course, nobody in District 4 had ever seen snow, save for old Aram Scaff who clawed his way back from an arena where blood froze to red ice before it could well from a cut. Three hundred yards back from the beach, the girl woke to the sound of waves kissing the shore and pushed her tangle of chestnut hair from her eyes. Still stiff with salt from her last swim, the girl's hair clung to her hands as she swept it into a topknot. A thick hank fell down into her eyes, and with a little smile, Annabel pursed her lips and blew it out of the way.

Barefoot, the girl was silent on the floorboards as she passed to the kitchen. The oily smell of fried kippers still cling to the air and the cast iron skillet rested by the sink; the remnants of Rhea, Damon and her father's breakfast before they took to the trawler. Ducking under the dried eels that hung from the rafters, teeth still needle sharp in their gaping jaws, Annabel snatched a passionfruit from the carved bowl on the table. The table had been in the family before Annabel had been born. Large enough to seat more than just their small family, it bore the flaky, white paint that marked that it had once been part of a hull. When she was younger, Annabel liked to imagine where it had sailed, and who had captained it. Sometimes, as she sat upon her knees on the table, she put her hand to her eye and scanned the horizon, and she was the captain. But Annabel hadn't played those sorts of games for a while now. A few barnacles clung to the bottom corner, even in death and Mel Cresta never stopped complaining about the paint flakes that littered her kitchen, finding their way even into the food, but her husband only joked that a bit of lead was healthy and he refused to sand back the table.

"You're up early, love." Mel leaned against the open back door, looking down the sandy track that her husband and oldest children had taken to the docks. She had a kind face, not as lined as some, for she did not work out in the wind and salt spray like many in the district. Instead of donning overalls and good-soled boots each morning, Mel dressed in a neat blouse and skirt and walked down to the head office for _Perpetual Seafood_, to answer the phone and make tea and coffee for the boss. Sometimes, Annabel thought she was nothing like her mother, and her father even joked that the merpeople must have swapped her and left a little changling in her place. Maybe the real Annabel Cresta was learning to swim beneath the sea and plait seaweed into her hair. At fourteen, the girl was already taller than her mother and the three days a week she spent at the training academy were starting to pare away her baby fat and reveal the muscles below. The soft yellow skin of the passionfruit gave way under her fingernail and she worked her way around until the bright orange seeds shone like jewels. Taking a couple in her mouth, she relished the tart sweetness of the jelly, and swirled the small, black seeds against her teeth.

"I'm going to run on the beach," Annabel said.

Mel sighed, turning away from the hint of sunrise out the back door. "Well, if you go swimming, don't go out deep; it's shark time, and your father said they'd spotted a big one hanging around Sorrel Jetty yesterday."

"_I know_, Ma." Taking a towel hanging from the driftwood rack by the stove, Annabel bent to peck her mother's cheek and slipped past her.

"Hold on, love," Mel called. "Are you at school or the academy today?"

"I'm training."

"_Again_?"

"This is first time this week, Ma." Annabel shifted her weight impatiently from foot to foot. "Besides, in District 2, they start training at eight years old, sometimes, and do it every day."

"Do we look like we're in District 2?" Mel snapped. "It seems like you're there every single day. Don't forget you've got final exams in two weeks. Have you even started studying?"

"The school gives you a pass automatically if you're training. It doesn't even matter."

Mella Cresta's face flushed as she drew herself up and braced her hands on her slim hips. "It will matter when you want to get a job and you can't hardly read and write. Maybe you won't want to work on a fishing boat all your life, or maybe you'll want to be a captain, or navigator?"

"Won't matter if I win," Annabel muttered darkly, but she wasn't brave enough to say it loud enough for her mother to hear. Under Mel's stern gaze, she conceded. "Yes, Ma, I'll study tonight." As she scuffed her feet on the sandy garden path, the thought came unbidden; she knew thirteen sure ways to kill with a knife.

Once she walked to the end of Westella Street, where all the houses were neat weatherboard, picket fences enclosing small, sandy yards, she came to the ramshackle cottages close to the shore. Here, a narrow, sandy track wound between houses that knew no plan of streets or numbers. Most people just called it 'the shoreline', though perhaps those who lived there had a different name. None of the houses had a fence; their yards were simply too sandy to bother with a garden and when there was a king tide, most of them flooded. Porches sagged and paint flaked from the weathered boards to litter the ground like snow flakes. As she glanced around, towel on her shoulder and feet in the cool sand, Annabel wondered how many rooves would last the next storm season. She passed between the Odairs' house and the Triams'. A scattering of crab pots lay over the Odairs' front porch, one with a gaping hole that would trap no crabs. A roll of wire rested on the windowsill and another pot was half way through being repaired. The wires on the clothes line sagged threatening to drop the patched sheets into the sand; it had been a bad few years for crabs.

Ahead, glimpsed through the ramshackle collection of shacks, the sun was beginning to rise. A thin line of fire graced the horizon, where sky met water, and golden banners extended from it, setting the bellies of the clouds alight. Annabel was glad the clouds were golden, not red, and she recited the old saying to herself; _red sky at morning, sailors' warning, red sky at night, sailors' delight. _A smile lifted the girl's lips as she remembered the children's stories of fiery Apollo and his chariot of gold. It had been a while since Annabel Cresta thought of the old stories her grandfather used to tell. There were mermaids, changelings and men who could carry the world on their shoulders and never grow tired. Her grandfather's lilting accent would bring them all to life, as he rolled the unfamiliar names and places off his tongue, offering them up with a wink to the wide-eyed children. He used to name them 'little Athena', 'young Apollo.' When Annie told him she was to begin training, Grandpa had leaned forwards and with his arthritic fingers, ruffled her hair. 'Why do you want to grow up so fast, my little green-eyed Amazon?' The stories had stopped when Annabel went ahead and joined the training academy two years ago. The Cresta children still visited Grandpa, but he was usually silent, with his chair drawn up to the fire. Last year, he suffered a stroke that rendered his beautiful voice a jumble of stutters and false starts, and he couldn't have told a story even if there were anyone to listen.

Stepping nimbly, Annabel avoided the voracious clumps of spinifex that grew above the high tide line and set her towel down on the spines. Spinifex shouldn't be this sharp, shouldn't cut like a razor, but a few years ago, a handful of modified seeds were carried out of District 5 and took root. The modified plant was hardy and its spines were like blades. _Poor man's knife, _it was sometimes called. Annabel wasn't sure if it could be used like a knife, but she took care to avoid it. With a hand to her forehead, she shaded her eyes against the glare of the sunrise and looked over the water. The orange colours were just starting to paint the waves and shimmer on the damp sand where the waves crashed. She had the beach all to herself at this hour. But, stark against the clear sand, a wavering set of footsteps made their way down towards the lapping waves. Scanning the water, Annabel wondered who else was out this early. When she spotted movement some fifty metres from shore, she bit her lip. It was too far too see properly, and the sunrise on the waves made distances look deceptive, but as she watched, the lone swimmer ducked under the water, resurfaced and dove again. It had to be poor Finn Odair; nobody else in Bombay would be fool enough to be out so far before the sharks had returned to the depths to rest.

Hand held high over her head, Annabel moved it in the sweeping arc that everyone understood to mean, 'come back to shore, fast.' She thought she saw Finn wave back before he ducked under the water again. Annabel stamped her foot, startling a crab that scuttled away from the vibrations through the sand. She gazed back up the beach but they were quite alone. Pacing angrily, she thought that maybe Finn deserved to be taken by a shark if he were silly enough to so swimming at this time of day. In the end, though, she knew she wouldn't forgive herself if something happened to her friend and she shrugged off her shorts and shirt. The water still had night's chill as Annabel surged into the waves. When she reached waist deep, she pushed off the shifting sand and swam with smooth strokes, cutting the water like silk. Finn saw her coming and paddled closer, ducking under the water and popping back up in a game only he understood.

"Finn, come on, we need to get out of the water," she said, treading water.

"Hey Annie." He swam in a circle around her, flipping onto his back and rolling onto his stomach again. Around and around he went.

"Finn, we need to move!"

"Why?" He stopped, and trod water, regarding her with his head on the side.

"It's shark time, you idiot," Annabel snapped. Finn's face crumpled with hurt, and he screwed his eyes shut, diving under the water. Annabel waited impatiently, and when something touched her leg, she lashed out with a kick that would have made Tate, her trainer, very proud.

"Finn!" she shrieked, as he came up coughing and spluttering. He tried to keep his head up, clutching his bleeding nose. His big, green eyes filled with tears as he blinked the salt water from them.

"Annie!" he wailed.

The girl tossed her hair angrily, to conceal her guilt. "Sorry, Finn, let's just get out of the water. Now."

"Don't want to go with you," he said sulkily.

"Look, I said I was sorry, can we please just get out of the water, Finn, or I swear, I'm going to let the sharks eat you!"

They were about thirty metres from shore when a sleek shape moved under the water, sending a cold current and a chill of fear up Annabel's spine. She pulled up short, Finn with her, as the half-seen shape circled in front of them. The water rippled and swirled around the creature's body, infinitely more at home in the water than they were. Annabel's limbs felt weak and powerless as she trod water and realised that she might just die here. All the training from the academy fled her mind, and what good was it, anyway? Without a boat and a gaff, the tables were turned and this cold, merciless predator was entirely in its element. A dark, primeval thought twisted its way into her gut; there were two of them, and she was probably the better swimmer. It was cruel, but it was there.

The shark circled again. As it curved, it revealed its pale underbelly, ghostlike in the dark water. Finn's face was pale to match, as he crowded close to Annabel, making it difficult to move her arms enough to keep her head above water. When she felt a warm current on her leg, she felt the absurd desire to laugh as Finn pissed himself in fright. It passed, very, very quickly, as her head slipped under water and she came up coughing. That dark thought rose from the pit of her gut again, and she elbowed Finn away so she could keep herself afloat. The water roiled as the shark switched direction, turning its blunt head to the movement. Finn's face was white with fear, and blood painted a scarlet trail down from his nose, curving around his lips to drip from his chin. Sucking in her breath, Annabel realised that she wasn't the one really in trouble.

With a quick instinct that did a little to wash away the oily taint of her earlier thought, she slapped her hands flat on the water. Again, the shark turned like a whip crack, churning the water to white foam. Annabel kicked out blindly and felt rough skin against her shin and she held her breath. Thirty metres from shore, and nobody else in sight, she would die before Finn could possibly drag her back to the beach. Salt tears stung Annabel's eyes when she remembered that she had argued with her mother again this morning. Then, like a nightmare fading with the first sounds of morning, the grey nurse lazily flicked its tail, and the monster gracefully slid back to the depths. Its voracious appetite had been sated by the leavings of entrails and fish heads at the docks, and it was unused to prey that did not flee in a blind panic from its jaws.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Prompt: Slim, The Nova Challenge. Thanks to sohypothetically for beata'ing. **

The cold sand was a welcome haven to the two children as they stumbled ashore, knees crashing through the surf. Like ships racing home to port before a storm, sails unfurled and straining against the gale, they drove themselves up the beach and dropped to pant on the soft, dry sand. It clung, cold to their bodies and the brisk wind raised goose bumps over their skin. Neither child noticed. For a moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing and the lapping of waves on the shore. The latter continued as it always had, and the soft wavelets belied the dangers that lurked out where the shore dropped away. Annabel shivered involuntarily and put her back to the sea as she threw her arms around Finn's skinny shoulders and held him against her tightly. She felt each individual bone in his ribcage as she pressed her hands to his back. Finn tucked his head down into the hollow between the girl's neck and shoulder and rested his forehead against her warm skin. His own slim fingers clung just as tightly.

"Does your nose hurt?" Annabel asked, her words muffled against his hair.

"Mmm-hmm," Finn nodded into her shoulder.

As she drew Finn out to arms' length, she felt a fresh shiver as the cold wind kissed her skin again. Bringing her hands up to Finn's face, she ran one finger across the bridge of his nose but he pulled away sharply.

"Stay still. I'm not hurting you." She traced down the length of his nose, not exactly sure what she was feeling for. Nothing felt broken, and most of the blood had been washed away in the water. He'd have two fine black eyes by next morning, though. The wind whipped loose strands of hair into her eyes as she bit her lip against the guilt that nibbled at her gut. Instead, Annabel embraced the anger that crashed down, surging over the sand like the king tides that flooded the streets of the Shoreline. Now she and Finn were safe, she set it free.

"Don't ever do that again!" Annabel gripped Finn's narrow shoulders, her nails digging in until he squirmed. Though, her chattering teeth took some of the fierceness from her voice, for after all, she was only fourteen and what she wanted most was for someone to hold _her. _"Get it?"

"Oww, Annie," Finn whined. "I get it, I get it."

Finn gazed up at her with such wide eyes, mirroring a gentle sea cove on a calm day, that she wanted to believe him but the curious set of her mouth read that she wasn't quite sure. It was over, anyway. Annabel looked guiltily at the little crescents her nails had left on Finn's satin skin and the fresh blood that trickled slowly down the contours around his lips and it mixed with the saltwater on his skin. The dark little thought that scared her nearly as much as the black-eyed shark had resurfaced from the depths. She opened her arms again, gently this time, and Finn fitted himself against her. Annabel liked the warm feel of his skin against hers and the salty smell that covered them both. She didn't want to move, but the words clawed their way up her throat.

"I'm-I'm sorry I kicked you, Finn," she whispered. "And, I'm just sorry."

"It's okay, Annie," he said.

"No, I'm really sorry, Finn, I-" The girl sniffed quickly, and screwed her eyes shut against the tears that stung her eyes worse than salt water. Volunteers in training didn't cry.

"Annie? Annie? I didn't mean to make you cry," Finn said anxiously. "I _really_ won't do it again."

"It's okay, Finn, do you even know what-oh, Finn what are you doing?"

Letting his head loll back, Finn giggled as he went limp in her arms. He felt like a dead weight. "I'm a jellyfish," he explained.

"Of course you are," Annabel sighed, and she let him flop back on the sand as if he had no bones. Laughter bubbled up in her throat like a pot on the boil and her lips twitched, once, twice, as she tried to hold it in. Just as her anger had boiled over, so did her laughter, and Annie bent over in the sand, taking deep, gasping breaths amidst her mirth. It was a good sound, and Finn giggled along with her, doing much to dispel the dark memories of the shark, like sunlight slipping through the window to burn away the clouded nightmares.

"Finn-oh, you've-you've got no clothes on!" Annabel said, as soon as she could manage to speak.

"Don't need them," he responded.

"Yes you do. You always need clothes."

"Not in the bath," Finn argued logically.

"Okay, everywhere but the bath," she amended. Finding her feet, Annie rescued her dropped clothes from the dry sand and placed her shorts by Finn's side. She tugged her own shirt on over her togs and dusted the sand that clung to her hands. Suddenly embarrassed, she glanced at Finn from the corner of her eye. With the dawn light on it, Finn's skin was molten copper. His hair, plastered wetly over his face, was darker now, nearly as dark as hers, but it should have been a bright bronze. A concave chest and stomach, and the barest dusting of golden hair between his legs proclaimed Finn to be a child still. Annabel couldn't imagine him any other way. With his slim, child's body, and the delicate features of his face, he looked like one of the beautiful nereids from Grandda's stories, come to sun himself in the world of the humans. Lithe and innocent, Annabel wondered fleetingly if he would disappear with the tides. Finn Odair was one of the most beautiful people she'd ever seen, and if there were gods like in the old stories, then they had played a cruel trick to house such a mind in such a shell.

"Come on, Finn, let's go," Annabel said, as a fresh gust of wind lifted the sand to sting against her calves and the world turned onwards.

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm a jellyfish." The inflection in his high voice suggested that she ought to have known.

"Finn, it's time for school soon. Come on, or I'm going without you."

Annabel counted _one, two, three _slow steps in the shifting sand before Finn caught up to her. His feet sunk in the soft sand and her shorts rode dangerously low around his childish hips. Narrow fingers caught onto her own, holding on so tightly she could have counted the knucklebones.

"I wasn't really going without you," Annabel said.

"I know." Like sunshine streaming from between the clouds, Finn shot her one of his rare grins, dimples tucked in each check.

Sedna Odair met the children at the porch of her little cottage. Two spots of colour rode high over her cheekbones and while she wore her overalls and boots, her hair was a tangled mess.

"Skies above, Finn, there you are!" She turned and shouted over her shoulder to someone behind the house and her voice cracked with relief. Looking down at her bare feet, Annabel affected not to notice. "Rhyne, he's back!"

Sedna seized her son and held him, damp and sandy, to her chest. She pressed her lips to his salty hair and closed her eyes for the barest of moments before she drew him away again. Her pulse raced like feet thumping on the hard sand down by the tideline.

"Don't you run off again," she whispered. Drawing herself up, Sedna tried to collect herself but she kept her arms around Finn's shoulders. He left a small smear of blood on the front of her overalls, and Sedna bent down to run her fingers over the beginnings of a bruise on his face. "What happened here?"

"That was my fault," Annabel said quickly. "It was an accident. There was a shark down at the beach-"

"A shark?" Sedna pulled Finn close to her side again for a moment, catching him off balance. "Gods, I-we'll talk about this later, I don't have any time. But thank you, Annabel, for bringing him back."

"It's okay."

"Oh, it's not, it's-" Sedna ran a hand distractedly through her hair. "Finn, darling, I've got to go. I'm so late, can you let go now-oh, really, not a jellyfish again. I haven't got time." With a frazzled sigh, Sedna released her son and let him sit down on the splintery boards of the porch. Finn giggled and attached a 'tentacle' to his mother's leg.

"For goodness sake, Finn, not now!" Sedna cried in frustration. When she called over her shoulder again for Rhyne, Annabel flinched.

"Um, Finn, show me the jellyfish again?" she offered. Finn obliged with a giggle, sliding his sticky, salty fingers around her ankle instead.

"Thanks, Annabel," Sedna sighed. "Look, you wouldn't be able to keep an eye on Finn, just until Rhyne comes back, he won't be long. I can't miss another shift on the boat or-oh, you don't need to hear that."

"I don't mind," the girl shrugged awkwardly. Her mother said that the Odairs didn't have much money, but it wasn't something to be talked of. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and didn't meet Sedna's eye. It was easier when she was just Finn's mother, who always took back her son at the end of the day with a good-natured smile and sigh and set to pulling the seaweed from his hair.

The sun was well up by the time Annabel had persuaded Finn to get dressed. Rhyne stomped out of the bathroom a few minutes before they had to leave, drying his hair off with a threadbare towel. Finn was sitting up at the table, picking at a heel of bread but he cowered away from the dirty look his brother shot him, flashing like a knife.

"If I'm late again because of you-"

"Hi, Rhyne," Annabel said awkwardly.

"Um, sorry, Annabel, I-"

"It's okay," she said quickly, looking at him sideways through her lashes. Subtly, she straightened at the bench where she was spreading orange salmon roe on a thick slice of bread for Finn's lunch. He probably should have done it himself, but they did need to leave in the next half an hour, and there was no telling if he'd decide to make patterns with the shiny orange eggs, instead of spreading them. Annabel took a breath that pushed her stomach in and her budding chest out. "We won't be late, there's still heaps of time before school starts."

"Sure," Rhyne said, not looking at Finn. "Thanks for finding him."

"No worries." She wrapped up the sandwich and tucked it in Finn's battered canvas bag.

"What do you say, Finn?" Rhyne asked, his voice honey over sharp rocks.

"Thanks, Annie." He watched his older brother carefully and when they walked out the door together, he made sure to keep Annabel between them.

At Annabel's neat, blue-painted home they stopped and she fished the spare key from a pile of driftwood by the backdoor. Rhyne had the grace to look away, but Finn watched her as he always did. He knew where the key was, anyway. The boys waited outside as Annabel changed hastily into her uniform and sandwiched a few of the leftover kippers in a slice of bread for her breakfast. As a last minute thought, she wrapped a few of the flat, crumbly biscuits her mother had made last night in wax-paper and tucked them in her pocket. When she came back, still adjusting the dark collar of her shirt, Finn's eyes were over-bright, filled with withheld tears, and Rhyne had a guilty set to his jaw. His voice was brusque when he suggested they get moving. Annabel said nothing, but let Finn hold her hand. Part of her was glad when Rhyne peeled away to go to the west end of campus; he was sixteen and had only two years of school remaining. Annabel walked with Finn to the east end, for the primary school children. She was glad he was still among the younger children for now; next year, the school would be forced to move him up to the older grades, and Annabel worried what might happen. She wished Finn could join her at the _Bombay Institute_, but it was only for volunteers in training and children whose parents wore suits, not overalls, to work and came home smelling like cologne rather than fish.

They stopped by the fence. Enclosed within it were a few low buildings and an oval that was more sand than dirt where grass struggled to grow.

"Oy, Annabel!"

The girl and the boy tensed, and his fingers tightened around hers until once again, she could feel all the delicate bones of his hand. "What do you want, Barra?" Annabel asked, swinging around to face the stocky boy who leant up against the fence. The navy blue of the training academy uniform made his grey eyes look dark and flat.

"Finn," Barra sneered, ignoring Annabel this time. He sketched a rude gesture by his hips and Finn's eyes widened.

"What's-"

"Nothing, Finn, come on." Annabel dragged him through the gate and only stopped when Barra was out of earshot. "Ignore him, okay, he's gross."

Finn nodded uncertainly and Annabel sighed. She slung her bag over her shoulder so she could fix Finn's collar. The pale blue of the District School's uniform looked nice on him, but it hung loosely from his narrow shoulders; it was an old one of Rhyne's. He fidgeted unhelpfully and Annabel shook her head. She fished in her pocket and handed him the wax-paper packet.

"To say I'm sorry, for this morning," Annabel muttered.

"Thanks, Annie." Finn hesitated before he stretched up to plant a shy kiss on her cheek.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Prompt: Disdain, the Silver Challenge, at Caesar's Palace forum. Thanks to sohypothetically for beta'ing. **

**I'd also like to wish everyone a happy christmas and a safe new year. **

**Love,**

**Estoma. **

In spring, Apollo began his journey across the sky early. He roused his fiery stallions from their stables and harnessed them when only the early rising fishermen were out of bed. The sun was already well on its path across the sky when the strident strains of the Capitol Anthem called the children to class. As the warm spring rays caressed her cheeks and the back of her neck, the girl shook her dark hair and a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Finn still loved the stories his grandmother used to tell. Sometimes, when he would re-tell the old ballads of Odysseus and Calypso; Achilles, the great hero; and Heracles' tasks; his eyes would grow bright and far-away and Annabel wasn't sure he realised they were just stories. Different names would appear when Finn told the stories, and Annabel never remembered her grandda telling of them. There was Selemoon, who did not mourn her twelve sons in life, so in death was turned to a weeping willow so she might mourn for all time; Darres, navigator to the gods; Tayo and Thamas, sister and brother who tamed the chimeras and rode them into battle only to be dashed against the high Trojan walls. Sometimes the child would stop, lips parted and moving silently as his imagination overtook him. It was uncertain how long he would stay like that if uninterrupted. It took a splash of cold water, cupped in Annabel's hands, to drag him back.

As the anthem faded away, Annabel watched Finn meld with the other children. Most on the east side of campus were younger than thirteen, but Finn was certainly not the tallest. The girl watched until his bronze, tousled head was lost in the melee around the double doors. When she turned back, Barra was waiting by the fence, tanned arms resting on the top rail in a way that stretched the navy blue uniform over his biceps. His satisfied smirk showed that he knew very well what it looked like.

"Annie." He fell into step beside her.

"It's Annabel," was her curt reply. She edged up her pace, hitching her bag over her shoulder. Barra matched her, long legs making it an easy task. His hair was the same shade as Finn's, but on Barra it looked hard, flat, like an old bronze blade. It had been hacked short, as if by blunt scissors.

"What, only your boyfriend can call you 'Annie'?" Barra sneered, tossing his head.

"Finn's just my friend."

"So anyone can give you a kiss, huh?" The boy leaned down, his lips were drawn back in a snarl. He crowded too close and Annabel could feel the heat that radiated from his body. She shoved him, hands flat to his chest.

"My friends can."

No gentleman, the stocky boy shoved her back and Annabel staggered. Her eyes narrowed and she shot him a fierce look but did not do anything more, not when they weren't under the watchful eye of the trainers at the academy. At the academy, bruises were as far as fights went, but she wasn't sure what Barra might do. She extended her stride and he matched her again.

"Can you not?"

"Not what, walk?"

"Not breathe would be good," Annabel muttered under her breath.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing." Shoulders tensed, the girl crossed the street with Barra close behind. She wove around a slow moving car, carrying its load of fish to the market, and for a moment lost Barra as he was forced to wait until it had passed. Their pace increased until, around the market at Davy Street, they were in a dead sprint; racing, shoving. Stalls of bread, fruit and fresh fish flashed past as the children wove between morning shoppers and fishermen selling the portion of their catch that was not shipped out to the Capitol or the other districts. After a ponderous journey on ice, the fish hauled from the nets in Bombay would find their way to tables in the Capitol, the tiered mansions of District 1 and the tiny mountain villages in District 2, cradled amongst the mountain spires. It was a strange thought that the tributes all across Panem would all taste fish from 4's waters. Well, not those from the poorer districts; 11, 12 and 8, for seafood was expensive.

The market stretched through most of the wide, paved street. Davy Street led up to the main square with the empty Reaping stage. Fruit shipped in from the orchards and paddocks of 11 was bright and shiny; oranges, lemons, apples, star fruit, Huge melons, bigger than a head and striped different shades of green nestled next to dragon fruit with the vivid pink skin and green spines. Bunches of bananas hung from the roofs of the stalls, set up to give a little shade and keep the fruit cool in the spring heat. It would grow hotter as the season wore on. Grains from 9 had been wrought into fine rolls and rough loaves, plaits of baked dough and even some shaped into fish by a baker with a sense of humour. Meat products made up many of the stalls; one butcher sold the grass-fed beef from District 10, shipped out on the trains as carcasses hanging in the cold compartments and hacked up by the muscled apprentices who manned the stall. But even more displayed their wares fresh from the docks. Oysters, already opening with a short, thick blade, were displayed on rows of ice. They were for the richer folks of Bombay. Huge tuna were ready to be hacked into fillets, black eyes staring up at the roof of the stall or the busy shoppers. Tubs of tiny baitfish, by contrast, were sold by the scoop.

Dust rose in the square as the children raced through the end of the market and into the open space. Their feet slapped the concrete in time with their heavy breathing. Most of the shops were just opening, the owners rolling signs out onto the street. A tailor, measuring tape dangling from his pocket gave them a sharp look as they raced close by his rack of dresses, fluttering the fabric, but he saw their navy uniform and decided not to say anything. The team of masons, brought out from District 2 on the train, were already hard at work refacing the Justice Building. The mayor of District 4 would have only the best, for the building would soon be on display when the Reaping came in August. Scaffolding covered the elegant front like a spider web and chisels made a sharp, ringing noise on the stone.

"Not near the fuckin' scaffold!" one of the masons shouted as Barra and Annabel swerved around the corner of the Justice Building. The girl's rough topknot came undone and her heavy hair slapped her back in time with her panting breaths. Petone Street had less sand in the cracks of the cement but it began to turn steeply upwards and inland. The children ran with their backs to the sea and the breaking waves but there was still salt in the air. Now stone or brick houses lined the street rather than the weatherboard cottages down by the shore. As the grade increased Barra dropped back half a pace and his laboured breathing twisted a feral smile onto Annabel's face. The air, already warm, seemed to scorch her throat as the low brick buildings of the training academy loomed up, surrounded by their lawns and the running track. Standing targets were already set up on the field but nobody was at practice.

A collection of squat, red brick buildings, the training academy did not look like much. The grass that surrounded it, fenced off by a tall wall, was kept green through summer by constant watering. Officially named the _Dock Academy_, in block, white writing above the main building, it had been dubbed 'The Docks'. Maggie Dock, victor of the 11th games, had seen the success District 2's academy experienced and was the driving force behind its establishment, with Capitol funds, of course. Mags had fought a hard fight against the pair of newly trained volunteers from District 2, and had only won by chance when the boy slipped and sprained his ankle, and his partner stayed back to help him.

Gravel crunched furiously under their feet as Annabel and Barra raced up to the front entrance. The doors were propped open to let a breeze into the foyer, and plunging into the cool shade was like diving into cool water. Annabel crossed the threshold a few paces in front of Barra.

"Annabel!" Tate's voice was like a whip crack and it stopped her short. He smiled, with a little glimmer in his eye. It was hard to see if he were smiling or not, through his beard, worn in the style of an old captain. It was just starting to show a few threads of silver. "Head to class. Barra, you can run a lap of the field before class starts. Might teach you to lose to a girl. Go."

Annabel stuck her tongue out as Barra turned back out the door. Her feet echoed on the floorboards as she walked down the hall to her class. The walls were lined with the simple portraits of District 4's tributes. They were plain headshots, taken in the Justice Building just after the tribute was reaped or volunteered. The girl kept her eyes down out of habit; it was not pleasant to be watched by so many dead eyes. Those at the start of the hall were too old for Annabel to remember, but as she walked down the end, the faces grew more familiar. There was Cleo Damass who made the finale a few years ago. Serino Criviss, who has been friends with her sister, Rhea, and giggled over boys in Rhea's bedroom. Another Aram, this one not so lucky as Aram Scaff, victor of the 31st games, had been stabbed to death by his allies, held down and a hand over his mouth. Little Molly Dight gazed down from the wall, all of fifteen years old, but nobody had volunteered for her because she'd been training for three years already. The red-eyed alligator mutts hadn't cared for that as they tore her arms off like she was a rag-doll and it had been unclear if she drowned or died of blood-loss. Annabel walked the last few paces flanked by bare walls and took her seat.

The classrooms at _The Docks_ weren't anything special, and they did not need to be. Most of the funding from the Capitol was channelled into the gyms, the weapons and the new simulated scenarios that Annabel wasn't old enough to try yet. There were a few dorms but only a handful of children boarded at the academy, those from up and down the coast, from the North Peninsula to the Southern Horn. Most of the volunteers came from Bombay, the capital, and consequently, so did most of the victors.

Sliding into her seat, Annabel offered Nerissa a breathless good morning.

"You been working out already?" her friend asked.

"Oh, I had to race Barra here, but guess what happened this morning. I nearly died!"

"Oh, did Rhyne smile at you?" Nerissa giggled.

"No, well, yes, but I mean really died. I could have been killed by a shark this-"

A reluctant hush settled over the group of fourteen year olds, like a wave rolling over the shore, as the trainer entered. Tate Travash, victor of the 42nd games was one of those tributes who were lucky in that the arena had been almost designed for him. Subsequently, he wasn't as hardened as some of the others, for his games had not been the same struggle. His kills had been mostly bloodless as he pushed his allies off the narrow land bridges and held them under the water, or simply barred their way back to the thin strips of land, trusting that his own stamina in the water was greater than theirs.

"I actually touched-" Annabel continued in a low voice.

"Cresta, zip it, unless you want to run a lap yourself," he said, as Barra slunk in, red faced and shoulders slumped. He shot Annabel a look with narrowed eyes and took the only free seat at the front of the room.

The morning role call lasted only minutes before the children stowed their bags and filed out the back exit to the field. Tate set them to jog a few laps to warm up, shooting Barra a firm glance. Annabel fell into step with Nerissa, keen to continue her conversation.

"You saw a real shark?" her friend asked. "Like, a real one, not a little white-tip?"

"It was huge! Three, four metres," Annabel pronounced. The grey nurse had been closer to three, but she thought four sounded better. "Four metres, maybe more, but it was so hard to tell in the dark."

"Well, what happened?"

"It swam up to me and Finn this morning-"

"Wait-why were you swimming when it was dark? That's so-"

"I wasn't going to go out deep, but I saw Finn there and I couldn't leave him."

"I would have left him out there."

"He's my best friend! Anyway, I kicked the shark. Really kicked it, then it swam away."

"Are you sure?" Nerissa's tone was sceptical.

"Of course I am."

Nerissa sniffed and missed her rhythm for a moment, stumbling on a tussock of grass. "I thought I was your best friend."

Annabel looked straight ahead. "You are. But Finn's kind of special."

"Special," Nerissa laughed nastily. "You know what people think about him. He's just…there's something wrong with him. Maybe he got dropped on his head when he was little?"

"That's horrible-" Annabel started, but her words died in her throat. Everyone knew there _was_ something wrong with Finn.

"Well, I still don't think you should have gone out for Finn. You know Barra says that-"

"Who cares what he says?"

"-Finn's mad and he should have been left to-"

"Ladies! It's not a stroll on the beach!" Tate's sharp voice put an end to the conversation for now, but Annabel knew exactly what Barra said about Finn. He was one of the few boarders at _The Dock_. He'd been sent to the academy two years ago after a peacekeeper caught him holding another child's head underwater in a rock pool. The boy had been two years older than Barra. Impressed, the peacekeeper suggested the academy, and his parents thought it best to send Barra off where he would be with children that were strong enough to fight back. Perhaps the training would give his energy and his violent desires a new outlet. Barra's explanation as to why he was holding a boy's head underwater varied daily; sometimes he just looked at him the wrong way, and others it was because he teased his sister. It made Annabel a little sad to think Barra had a sister he hadn't seen for two years now but perhaps she was better off without him around. At least his family would receive an allowance to compensate them for the removal of their child.

Annabel shook her head to clear thoughts of the brutish boy from the Southern Horn and lost herself in the delicious fantasy that it had been Rhyne Odair, not Finn, in the water this morning. Though, Rhyne wouldn't be silly enough to be out during shark-time. It would be better, Annabel thought, that it were she who was saved. The girl savoured the image, her lips parted, of Rhyne punching the shark's eye like they were taught at school while she floated, wearing her nice bikini and not the navy, academy issued one-piece she used for training. By the time the fantasy had crystallised in her mind, Annabel could almost taste the salt on her lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: Prompt: Dust, the Panem Challenge at Caesar's Palace forum**

Spring sunshine slanted through the bank of windows along the near wall of the classroom. It fell across the desks on that side, catching motes of dust in the still, stuffy air and the children there had to squint against the glare. It was a poor design. Perhaps in District 2, or the Capitol which both resided far to the north and west, it would be advantageous to trap as much sun as possible, but in District 4 it made no sense. Sun was one thing they had in abundance. Most homes had few south facing windows and wide verandas and eaves shaded those that did face into the harshest sun. The plan of the District School had not been concocted by someone who knew 4 very well. In fact, the grubby colliers' children in District 12 to the blonde haired and blue-eyed offspring in District 1 all sat in schools of very much the same design. The Capitol issued out the same plans for the District Schools, and it was only the privately funded institutes that had any individuality. Of course, the quality of the workmanship, the materials, and the degree of maintenance all varied per district. The children of 4 were lucky to go to a school where the roof did not sag with age, and no water dripped onto their desks, or leaked through the cracks in the windowpanes when it rained. Their school was plain, whitewashed wood, which had been imported from 7. In other Districts, like 1 and 2, they built with stone because that was what they had. In 12, even strips of plywood would do.

The children filed in and took their habitual places. Where each sat showed a good deal about them, and a casual observer could learn a lot about children simply from studying a seating plan. Each place had been hard fought for, in the small, but fierce battles of the young, and the winners guarded their spots carefully. Those youngsters that took the comfortably shaded seats on the north side of the room were invariably larger, more attractive or exuded a certain air; sleek and well fed. Some defining characteristic had given them the right to seat themselves in the privileged spot, where they did not sweat under their pale blue school shirts. In contrast, those who sat in the direct sun and raised a hand to shade their eyes were usually scruffier, with navy shorts a little faded, shoes scuffed and laces frayed,

Finn slid into his accustomed place, brining a hand up to his eyes without thinking of it. He rested his elbows on the sun-warmed wood of the desk and cupped his chin in his free hand. Streaming in, the light picked out the sun-bleached highlights in his hair and made his skin shine with a fine sheen of sweat. He kept his eyes half shut against the glare. It made him look as if he were not paying attention and the assessment was true. Around him, the other students chatted, excited snatches of conversation occasionally rising above the others as voices rose in pitch, desperate to convey some small bit of news.

"-got into _The Docks_-"

"-was a rip a Summerall's yesterday and I nearly-"

"-asked me to walk home with him!"

If the observer needed a clue that the thin boy with the lean, restless fingers did not fit in, it was quite simple. Though all the single desks faced forwards, the children leaned over in their chairs, angling their bodies to chat in the idle minutes before their teacher arrived for the morning. In his shirt that hung too loosely from his shoulders, Finn just faced the front. He did not pretend that he was in fact, very bus, and didn't want to talk, as some others did. They arranged their pens on their desks or inspected the posters that lined the back of the room. Most of those had simple messages, concerned with water safety, thought one proclaimed that the 65th Hunger Games were only a few months away. _Jellyfish Aren't a Joke-Seek Help_ read one of them. _Don't Know: Don't Dive_, was another well known, but often forgotten message. In other districts, classrooms were decorated similarly though the messages varied. In icy, landlocked District 2, they were more concerned with warning their children of avalanches and rockslides, rather than sunburn. _Quarries Are Not Playgrounds_ was a recent campaign, for the statistics of children who were hurt, or even killed as they scrambled about the quarries when the workers had gone home were alarming. It was the leading killer for children in District 2, far surpassing the Hunger Games, just as it was drowning in District 4, and starvation in Districts 8, 11 and 12. There was also a large Capitol seal, all sharp angles and bright colours, totally alien.

A reluctant hush blanketed the class as the teacher entered, tapping her ruler against her thigh. Conversations trailed off with the promise to be picked up at recess, or when Mrs Atteina wasn't watching. With a scrape, chairs were turned to face her desk and under her keen eye, the children rose to recite the pledge of loyalty to the Capitol. However, it lasted but a minute and the words were mumbled, offered forth in slurred and hurried tones, and few of the children clasped their hands behind their back in the respectful posture. District 4's beautiful accent was more suited to stories than pledges. The impatient look the teacher gave said that she thought as much. While the pledge was recited around Panem, it was really only District 2 that said the words with chests puffed out and feet braced strongly, as it was meant to be. Mrs Atteina sighed and nodded when it was done. She had not even mouthed the words.

For the twelve years olds, and Finn, the day began with basic algebra. Twenty exercise books being opened made a sound like wind in the spinifex grass, and many a student glanced longingly out at the window where the sunlight caught on the water. Instead, twenty pencils scraped slowly over the paper. Finn Odair clasped his loosely in his hand and gazed at the symbols on his page. A small smile lifted the corners of his lips as he let his eyes grow unfocused and the equations were transposed onto one another until it was an unintelligible mess. He touched the pattern it made by in doing so, his eyes snapped back into sharp focus and it faded away. So did his smile. Instead, Finn traced over the curving arms of the _x_ and the rigid bars of the _=. _In a few quick strokes he had a sea-star, like the kind you could find on the beach; bleached and dead. Their colours were dull red, washed out blue, white. Even when put back in the water, the colours did not return nor the suppleness, to the five curling limbs. It was better to pluck them, living and glistening, from the rock pools, or just below the water on the rotting pylons at the _Old Jetty. _Almost tentatively, the suckers on the arms attached to one's palm and it tickled, but the starburst of colours, red, purple, blue, black and green were worth it, fresh from the sea. Finn giggled and curled up his fingers as if he did have a sea-star hidden in his hand. The girl in front of him half turned in her seat and sent him a sharp, narrow-eyed look.

Finn stopped drawing sea-stars and turned the angular 'greater than' sign into a sleek dorsal fin. Fingers above the paper, he paused, and the acrid feeling of remembered fear rose in his gut, threatening to burst forth from his throat, but in a few quick strokes he turned it into a dolphin, not a black-eyed shark. Pencil held loosely in his thing fingers, he added another dolphin nearly on top of the first, and another, until he had a pod. The graceful mammals were not an uncommon sight off 4's beaches. The friendly agile creatures were thought to be a sign of good luck, for where there were fish hunters, there was bound to be a shoal. An even better sight was the swooping and diving of seabirds, with the sunlight catching off their white wings as well as the waves. Most people knew the story of King Triton, too, with his chariot enamelled with the pearlescent linings of abalone shells, drawn by a pair of dolphins. Finn didn't remember the first time he heard it; Triton under the sea was as real a figure as the mayor in his black suit, and much more exciting.

It had only been last year that Finn touched one of the beautiful creatures. The sun had been fierce and it made a shimmering haze on the sand. He and Annie had to walk on the damp sand by the receding tide to avoid burning the soles of their feet. Though their feet were toughened from going barefoot whenever they could, even over the sharp, broken oyster shells nears the jetty, the summer sun was something else. At first the sandy mound looked like nothing more than a log, half buried on the beach but the three or four stray dogs circling belied the truth. The dogs gave ground reluctantly as Annie slipped on her sandals and walked up the beach to investigate. A big, sand coloured bitch eyed her warily, her teats swollen and dangling; she must have a littler of pups stashed somewhere along the shore or in the dirty alleys. She backed away with blood on her muzzle. The girl kept her younger friend behind her until she was sure the strays wouldn't rush back; they were hungry and a bite would be no joke. The dolphin was stranded on its flank, the fluke of its tail half buried in the sand; a testament to its last, painful struggle. One of the eyes was gone, no doubt pecked out by an adventurous seagull, brave enough to sneak in amongst the dogs while there was so much to go around. The dogs' sharp canines, honed by hunger, had made short work of the creature's protective blubber and the belly had been torn open. About a foot away from the carcass was a half developed foetus. Its tender flesh had been a prize for the dogs who left little but the head and the bony flippers. Annie and Finn had stood, looking down sadly while the dogs edged a little closer again.

"Dead?" Finn had asked.

"Dead," Annie confirmed. "Shame no one saw it earlier. We could have rolled it back into the sea." She nudged the blubber with her toe. Finn bent down to touch it and the skin was already drying and cracking under the summer sun.

"Should be bury it?" he asked.

"You think you can dig a hole that big?" Annie laughed. She'd led him away, down to the surf to wash his hands and the eager yips and the sounds of tearing flesh started again.

"Well, they're nice dolphins," Mrs Atteina said drily. Her hands rested on the edge of Finn's desk and clutching in one was the metal ruler she brought down with a stinger smack on any offending knuckles. Now it was still in her hand and Finn smiled tentatively. The teacher shook her head slowly and moved on. For the most part, teachers had adopted the same attitude with Finn; if he was quiet and out of the way, it didn't really matter that he did. If he wanted to fill his pages with dolphins and mer-kings then it left them free to teach the students who had it in them to learn. Off the hook, Finn slowly started to shade in his drawing, and soon the dolphins were lost in a new pattern of concentric circles, like the ripples left by a skipping stone.

The District School did not boast much of a yard. Up at _The Docks_, and the _Bombay Institute_, the lawns were kept lush through the hotter months with sprinkler systems deployed diligently each morning. Here though, the grass grew scruffily and there was more dust than anything else. A scattering of pieces made up a playground in the middle of the oval, if it could be called such. There was a slide and swings used by some of the younger kids. In summer the metal would be too hot to touch in the middle of the day. The trees were the nicest part of the school. While the buildings lacked, the founder had taken pains to establish hardy varieties that stood up to the heat in a grove around the edge of the main buildings. They provided a welcome haven for students. Break time found Finn nestled against the trunk of one of the eucalypts, a tree whose ancestors came from a land far, far to the south, so far it might not even be able to be reached by boat. But Finn did not know this as he crunched one of the stretched-crescent leaves between his fingers, his eyes smarting at the astringent scent. There was no grass at all under the tree for something in its sap was poison to other plants and a circle of dust extended from the pale trunk. It made a good canvas. With one of Annie's biscuits in one hand, Finn traced his finger through the soft dust between his spread legs. A curling pattern emerged from the dust, trailing, curving, with no purpose but to its author. Finn drew; studiously looking at his finger in the dust for it was best not to attract attention. Just in earshot, on the other side of the trunk, a handful of younger girls sat and ignored him. Finn didn't mind because it was still a good idea to be near enough someone else that you didn't look all alone. That was just asking for trouble. Luckily the wost bullies ended up at _The Docks_, where they were with children too strong, or too rich, to torment.

When another blast of the Capitol Anthem called the students back to class, Finn drew diamonds and sea-stars through English, and filled a whole paged with ribbed shells as Mrs Atteina read a chapter of _The Capitol Handbook for District 4. _Her voice was flat, and most of the children sunk into a stupor, lulled by the warm, stuffy air, except one. One of the boys on the northern side of the room watched her closely, a nasty little grin on his face as he scrawled something in his notebook.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Prompt: Mundane, the Silver Challenge, at Caesar's Palace forum. **

By the time afternoon rolled by in a lazy haze, the temperature in the classrooms had increased to that pleasant point where the air was thick as honey and everyone slipped into a dreamy state. The two fans circled slowly, stirring up the warm air and sending the posters at the back of the room fluttering slowly and gently stirred the hair off the students' foreheads. Temperatures had not yet reached the souring heights of the summer months, when the pavement was so warm that an egg would fry in moments-and many students had tested it out. Then, tempers were frayed and taut as ropes on an old sail, from the heat as well as the tension that preceded the Reaping in August. District 4 may have been a careers district, and it was unlikely that a young and under prepared tribute would stand on stage with lip clenched between their teeth just to hold back their tears, but, it was still well known that their tributes never did as well as those from 1 and 2. Particularly 2. There was something about the cold mountain air that seemed to breed victors in a way that the salt spray of District 4 did not. The career program in District 4 would never be as serious as up north. As Maggie Dock had put it, more than fifty years ago, the Dock Academy was there to prepare children for what may lie ahead, not to tear out their young souls and replace them with cold, honed steel. The ethos may have changed a little since Maggie Dock was crowned victor, but it was still a far cry from Districts 1 and 2. At least they weren't sending children to their deaths, hopelessly, like the outlying districts.

After three weeks of excitement around the games, the heat would break and slowly temperatures crept back down and tempers settled like dust in the first proper rain of autumn. Once again, women in the market had time to stop and converse over the price of tuna and parents let their children get away with little misdemeanours that would have resulted in a tired clout during the warmer months. While there were a few storms left before spring relinquished its hold on the district and gave way to summer, temperatures were certainly on the rise, and people did their best to enjoy it before the first heatwave came.

A fly circled lazily around the room, having found its way through the open bank of windows. Unfortunately, it was a still day and the windows tempted in more flies than breeze. The confident little rode on the air currents created by the fan, tumbling through the air like a body surfer in a crashing wave. They seemed to play games as they swerved as close as they could get to the lethargic students without being swatted. Their low buzz melded with the drone of the teacher's voice as he slowly explained the difference between _sine _and _cosine_ and tried in vain to convey their importance for navigation. One could not use the stars, these days, the teacher said; it was calculations that mattered. Rhyne shook his head and smiled fondly at that; Finn was always talking about the stars and ships and dragons that rose from the sea. He'd been trying to tell such a story a few weeks ago, while Rhyne was busy making their dinner. Their mother was working overtime again. He'd only been half listening, then and now, but Rhyne was pretty sure that Finn's enigmatic constellations that moved the heavens to point the way for sailors were much more interesting than Mr Farrass' calculations.

Letting his eyes wander from the front of the room, Rhyne looked over his classmates. From his position at the back of the room, he had a good view of most of them. He let his eyes linger on Abbie Tiller's back, watching the way he long braid swung down to brush her backside. Her shirt had ridden up a bit at the side to reveal an expanse of tanned, brown skin. He concentrated on her until she half turned in her seat and flashed him a quick smile, all plump lips and white teeth, even if they were crooked. He didn't mind the feel of them when his tongue was in her mouth. Rhyne flicked her a suggestive gesture and she stifled a giggle. Letting his eyes wander again, Rhyne glanced around at the others. While there was only two years left of school, several in the class would not complete their education. It was acceptable to leave the _District School_ if one had full time work or an apprenticeship to go to. For most this meant one of the shops in the square or along Davy street, or a place on a father's boat. Rhyne was one of those who would not finish, for things had been increasingly tight since Hurricane Hanna had rippled along the coast last year. Forty fishing boats had been sunk out to sea and another fifteen were dashed against the docks as they rode at anchor in Bombay. Bombay. Bomb Bay. Once, it had been named Piper's Bay, but the name had been obliterated as bombs rained from the sky during the rebellion and wrecked most of the Capitol's navy as they were gathered there, readying their own strike. There had been warships in District 4 then, when they were the Capitol's naval base, just as District 13 had once been their centre of military operations. When the smoke cleared and the water ceased to roil, it was Bombay that emerged and the named had stuck. While Hurricane Hanna had only wrecked fishing boats, not metal machines of war, the level of carnage was similar. Fishermen drowned just as easily as sailors. Satnus Odair was one of the brave Captains who raced his boat before the storm, driven on steely wings of wind, but it had been impossible to steer in that gale. The arms of the port had reared up to meet _Pallas_ and should have offered safety, but the Hurricane had other plans. Instead of dashing through to the comparative shelter of the bay, the boat was dashed against the headland. Pieces of _Pallas_, and similar vessels were washed up on the beaches during the next few days as the hurricane blew itself out. The bloated, pale bodies came after.

A final round of the Capitol Anthem dismissed the children at 2pm. The tired teacher released them with a nod and Rhyne stepped out into the sun. Head down, his feet automatically started on the dusty shortcut through the tea-tree stand over to the east end of campus. His earlier warms feelings towards Finn and his stories dissipated in the warm air as Rhyne thought about Abbie Tiller and her long braid, and wondered if she'd be up for some fun after school. His feet faltered, but continued, with his mother's latest argument ringing in his ears. It had been late, and the stress of the day frayed tempers down to bare threads. There was little light in the kitchen, just a single bulb, and the sour smell from the meal he'd cooked lingered in the air. Rhyne leant over the table, elbows resting on the splintery wood and a pencil in his hand. Tiredly, he rubbed his eyes as the numbers shifted on the page. It was too late to be dealing with these calculations, but there had been little time in between cooking, picking Finn up and enquiring at the docks if there was any part time work to be had. _No, sorry son. Really? Nothing? Nothing. We'll let you know if anything comes up. _A floorboard creaked and Sedna crossed to the sink. She'd just finished tucking Finn in. Rhyne knew from the way she placed her feet carefully, calculated, that she was angry and trying not to show it. He ignored her.

"Finn said you didn't pick him up for ages," she said, her back to him.

"It wasn't ages. He hardly knows the time."

"Don't speak about him like that," Sedna hissed, voice low. "It's your job to walk him home. He's your brother."

"But he knows the way home!"

"That's not the point-" Sedna stopped shortly when she caught sight of Finn standing in the doorway. His hair was tousled and wet still from his bath and his wide eyed gaze travelled over both of them. Sedna gentled her voice. "Hey love, were we too loud?" When she opened her arms, Finn fitted himself neatly against her and she rested her chin atop his head.

"He wouldn't understand anyway," Rhyne muttered sullenly. "Too stupid-"

"Enough!" Sedna hissed. She moved her hand over her youngest son's ear and put her other arm protectively around his shoulders.

Now, Rhyne kicked a stone angrily, raising a little puff of dust. It ricocheted off one of the paper trunks of the tea-tree. He stopped and picked up another, closing his palm around it. Drawing back his arm, he aimed for the trunk again and for just a moment he imagined it was his brother. Sometimes, Rhyne thought Finn just needed a short, sharp shock to knock him out of it. The stone hit the post with a satisfying thunk.

"Hey there." A pair of hands rested on Rhyne's shoulders lightly and he felt Abbie's warm breath on his neck. She giggled when he twisted around and caught her hands in his, warm and dry.

"Hey, you."

"Walk with me to work?" she asked.

"I've got to-" For a moment, he hesitated, looking at his feet. When he glanced back up, he smiled. "Actually, yeah, let's go."

Abbie's hand light in his, he changed direction, down to the square. He was rewarded with another smile when he casually slipped her bag off her shoulder and onto his. Their path took them through Davy Street, past the stalls that had packed up for the day and into the main square. Abbie led the way to the fountain in the centre of the square. A most tenacious breed of moss clung to the crumbling plinth of the fountain and the features had long since been scoured away by the gritty wind. Sometimes, when it blew hot and dry across the coast, it was filled with stinging sand and the best thing to do was hurry indoors. Once, an equally old statue had presided over the square. It had been a man with great, strong shoulders for he balanced the word upon his back and water trickled down from the globe, over the rough shape of Panem, and the large masses to the south and west. Old Narai Odair, Rhyne's grandmother, remembered the day when it had been smashed up and hauled away like the bodies left by the rebellion, to be replaced with the stone figure of Commander Damash. He had been a Capitol soldier, sent to District 4 towards the end of the rebellion to help the loyalists rout the last of the rebels. Now, his features were weathered too and there was little left of his face but the vague suggestion of a nose and lips. He did provide some much needed shade, though, as Rhyne and Abbie sat down on the edge.

"When do you start work?" he asked.

"Half an hour. Wait with me?" She smiled again, and nodded towards the dress shop where she worked.

"Sure, I've got nowhere to be."

* * *

Sweat stuck Annabel's navy shirt to her skin and her hair was hot and itchy on her neck. Fortunately, it was an easy walk down sloping Petone Street, for her limbs were still leaden after Tate's last obstacle course.

"Got any plans this afternoon?" Nerissa asked.

Annabel shook her head. "Want to go for a swim?"

"Can't," Nerissa said smugly. "I'm meeting Barra."

"Why'd you ask me then?" Annabel's voice held a thinly masked trace of irritation.

"We're going to the beach," Nerissa continued as if there had been no interruption.

"Well, why didn't you just walk there with him?"

"More fun to meet him there." Nerissa hitched her bag up on her shoulder and continued with the self-assurance of one not involved. "We're going down to Summerall's. You should ask Rhyne to come."

Feet scraped the concrete and Annabel caught her toe in a crack and stumbled. She hoped Nerissa thought that was why she was blushing. "W-why?"

"You know!" The other girl pushed her lips together and pasted a slack, dreamy expression on her face.

"He wouldn't be interested," Annabel muttered.

"Maybe you could just bring Finn, then?" Nerissa laughed as if she'd said something particularly clever, and the sound was sharper, more cutting than the blades they'd been throwing this morning. Annabel narrowed her eyes and they didn't speak again until Nerissa turned down narrow Nen's Lane to take a shortcut down to the beach.

"Hope the sewer pipe's leaked into it again," Annabel muttered under her breath. Pushing her hair angrily out of her face again, she continued down to the square. She would go for a swim, she decided, and maybe-maybe she'd ask Rhyne. A plan crystallised in her mind; she'd ask Finn and act casual, asking Rhyne to come along too as if it only just occurred to her. Nerissa was always saying the best way to get a boy's attention was to play hard to get, and it seemed to have worked for her, though, Annabel wouldn't call Barra much of a catch. If he were a fish, she giggled at the thought, he'd be one of those slimy catfish that slunk around the mud at the river mouth, all poisonous spines, uglier than sin. The plan pleased her and her tread grew lighter as she turned into the square.

Ignoring the empty Reaping stage, the girl wandered past her favourite shop, running her fingers over a light, cotton blouse. Sadly, she shook her head and let the material slip through her fingers; you'd need a figure to be able to wear it. The owner caught sight of her and smiled, perhaps at the girl, but more likely at the uniform with the gold logo on the breast; crossed dagger and fish hooks. Annabel nodded and kept walking, glad the square wasn't too crowded now that the morning shopping was done. But, there were still enough people around to screen her view of the fountain until she passed quite close. A young couple perched on the rim of the fountain, under the stern gaze of Commander Damash. He looked as if he didn't approve of such dalliances. For a moment, the girl's mind was filled with dull history lessons, before the couple registered with her. Heart pouding as if she'd just done one of Tate's drills, she stopped and stared in the middle of the footpath. She didn't notice the sun pressing down, or her annoyed glances of her fellow shoppers. If she'd had a knife just then, she might have thrown it at the girl seated in Rhyne's lap. She balled her hands into fists. They were laughing, lips not quite touching, but close. Annabel's cheeks were aflame, though they could not have seen her yet. A small, hopeful voice in her mind whispered but perhaps it was just one of those silly girls who liked to get too close, and maybe Rhyne would push her away in a moment. Annabel clutched to the thought and nearly without her permission, her feet began to take her closer.

"Hi, Rhyne." To her ears, her voice sounded young, annoying.

"Uh-Annabel," Rhyne muttered. The girl slid off his lap.

"Hi," Annabel said again, softly.

"Hi," Rhyne repeated awkwardly. He made no move to introduce his friend, but his hand lingered on her waist. Annabel's eyes stung.

"Oh, you're training, well done," the girl smiled. Annabel muttered a reply. She'd have liked to coolly inform the girl that she had practiced throwing knives from fifteen yards away, but her tongue was slow and thick. Desperate to think of something to say, she cast around.

"Where's Finn?"

Rhyne had the grace to blush. "He can walk home himself."

"But, he never does that!"

"He knows the way."

Annabel's bravery shocked her. "Did you even tell him?" Again, she surprised herself as she had the audacity to glare at Rhyne and turn on her heel, heading back towards Davy Street. Her back and shoulders, stiff with indignation, lasted only until she heard the older girl's giggle. Then, like a puppet with slack strings, her head slumped and her steps dragged. The jeweller's window reflected her sorry figure and Annabel's eyes stung with tears. Her steps dragged to a halt. Dull green eyes looked back at her, the same eyes that many in the district could claim. Her hours at _The Docks_ had robbed her of her baby fat, but she was late developing the hips and breasts that her friends showed off with confidence. She was nothing special, and salt tears blurred her reflection as she turned towards the school.


End file.
